Chapter 4: Whisper from the Walls

Alika’s POV

I don’t remember exactly when everything started to change.

Maybe it was the first night—when the woman in the mirror looked at me as if I were her. Or maybe it began with that strange dream: the upside-down room, the eyeless bride, and the voice that told me I had to kill Ethan before the third night.

But this morning… something truly feels different.

The sky outside the window is gray, yet the light that seeps in feels strange—dim, as if held back by an invisible fog. When I crack open the window, an unnatural cold breeze slips in, too chilling for this season. The scent of jasmine clings to the air—too sweet, almost suffocating. And faintly... I can smell blood.

Ethan left before dawn. When I asked Mrs. Whitmore, she only replied softly, “Master Ethan has family business to attend to.”

Family business? In this house, anything tied to family sends chills through me.

Alone in this too-large bridal chamber, I begin to feel like a prisoner. Everything is too quiet. Too unreal.

I sit at the edge of the bed. A dusty painting hangs on the wall—a little girl on a swing in a shadowed garden, the gnarled limbs of a tree arching behind her. But what unsettles me most... are her eyes. Wherever I move, they seem to follow.

I try to distract myself. I pull a book from the shelf. I chew on the stale bread left by the maid. But as the clock inches toward noon—I hear it.

Soft.

So soft.

A whisper.

From inside the wall.

At first, I think it's mice. But no—this is a voice. Speaking.

"Run…"

"Hide…"

"He’s coming back tonight…"

I freeze.

I press my ear to the wall. The voice grows clearer, as if someone—or something—is speaking from just beyond the stone.

"You’re not the first…"

"He’s waiting for you in the cellar…"

"Don’t trust his blood…"

I stagger back in panic. My heartbeat skitters like a trapped bird in my chest.

“Who are you?! What do you mean?!”

No answer.

Only silence.

And then… laughter.

Soft. Female.

But it cuts through the air like a blade dragged slowly across skin.

I bolt from the room. The hallway stretches long and dim, lined with portraits of strangers whose painted eyes follow every trembling step. My footfalls echo, and for a heartbeat, I feel something unseen behind me—watching, trailing.

In the main hall, I spot Mrs. Whitmore watering the plants in a massive ceramic pot.

But the liquid in the jug—blood.

I stop in horror. Then blink.

Water.

Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe this house is starting to show me its true face.

“Mrs. Whitmore…” My voice barely escapes my lips. “Does this house… keep secrets?”

She turns slowly. Her eyes distant. Then, she lowers her gaze.

“Miss Alika,” she whispers, “The more you know, the closer danger comes.”

“I heard whispers. From inside the bedroom wall,” I admit, my voice trembling.

She bites her lip, then steps closer. Her breath brushes my ear as she murmurs,

“Never sleep with your door locked from the inside. And never look into the mirror at exactly 3 a.m.”

“Why?”

Her eyes fill with something I can’t name—dread? Regret?

“Because at that hour… what’s behind the mirror can see you back.”

---

That evening, I decide to look for the cellar the whispers spoke of.

This house is a labyrinth of forgotten corners and hidden doors. Behind the kitchen, I find an old iron door, nearly hidden by dusty tools.

Its lock is rusted, but oddly… it’s open.

Stone steps descend into pure darkness. The air shifts—heavy, damp, cold.

I turn on my phone flashlight and step down slowly.

The cellar walls are carved with symbols I don’t understand. But one of them catches my breath: a circle crossed by a single line, surrounded by three dots. It’s the exact shape of the birthmark on the back of my neck—one I’ve had since I was a child.

The deeper I descend, the colder it becomes.

And at the end of the path… I find it.

A wedding chair. Ancient. Centered in the room like an altar. Melted candles form stalactites of wax around it.

Draped over the chair is a wedding veil, faded to a sickly green-gray.

But that’s not what takes the breath from my lungs.

On the wall behind it hang dozens of photographs. All of women. All in wedding gowns.

And all of their faces... destroyed.

Torn. Scratched. Stabbed.

I stumble backward, horrified.

In the middle of the collage, there's an empty square.

Below it, only one thing is written:

Alika Morgan, 2025.

My hands begin to shake uncontrollably. My knees threaten to give.

And from the corner of the cellar, the voice returns.

Only now... it’s not a whisper.

It’s a scream.

"GET OUT! GET OUT BEFORE THE THIRD NIGHT!!"

I run. I don’t stop. My breaths are sharp knives in my chest. I burst out of the cellar—only to nearly crash into Ethan.

He stands there.

Still.

His face unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are razor-sharp.

“You weren’t supposed to go down there,” he says calmly.

“Down where? The cellar? What’s happening in this house, Ethan?!”

He steps closer. His gaze flickers across my face. “You heard them, didn’t you?”

“Heard who?!”

He inhales deeply, then exhales with a strange heaviness. “You’re more sensitive than we expected. But that also means… you can’t leave.”

I stare at him, throat tight. “What do you mean I can’t leave?”

“After the third night, you’ll become one of them. Your voice… will be the next whisper in the walls.”

My lips part. But nothing comes out.

And then, Ethan says something that freezes the air between us.

“The first woman who ever heard the whispers… was your mother.”

Before I can demand more, a creaking sound echoes behind me.

The bedroom door—left ajar just moments ago—now swings wide open.

On its surface, scratched deep into the wood, is a symbol.

The same one on my neck.

I gasp, hand flying to my mouth.

I am not alone.

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